Page 67 of Goalie Lessons

All at once, there’s only one thing I can think about—and it’s getting Grayson O’Connor into my hotel room.

***

Sloane is waiting for me when I finally make my way out of the VIP area. Savannah disappeared with the girls while I was still staring down at Grayson, which was the smart move—I spend at least ten minutes stuck in the crowd before my best friend finds me and plucks me out, pulling me to her side with a happy little grin.

“Come on,” she says, tugging me in the opposite direction, going against the grain of the crowd flow. “We can go out this way.”

Moving quickly, scanning a visitor’s pass on several doors, she takes us through the bowels of the arena and out the other side, where we’re spit out onto the street.

At first, I think to ask about the team, but after thinking about it, I land on a strategy that’s a little less direct, that might not make it clear that I’m really asking about Grayson.

“Is Callum coming?” I ask, glancing toward the door.

Sloane gives me a look, then raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Nah, he’s giving a post-game interview. Most of the guys won’t be out of there for at least another half-an-hour.”

With that, she’s whisking me away down the streets of Minneapolis, which are, somehow, even colder than they were before. The cold bites into my skin, invading my thoughts, but Sloane launches right into talking about the game, running through a play-by-play that almost makes me think she has some sort of photographic memory.

Yes, I remember the shots Grayson blocked, and the fight that broke out, but other than that, most of the hockey lingo Sloane throws out goes right over my head.

When we finally reach the hotel, Sloane pulls me into her room, still talking, disappearing into the bathroom to freshen up her makeup. A moment later, she reappears wearing a sweater dress and a pair of insulated leggings, looking me up and down.

“Which room are you in?” she asks, tucking her wallet into her purse.

“Uh,” I pause, staring at her, before lamely asking, “Why?”

“Because we’re going out, you ninny,” she says, laughing and pushing my shoulder, so I lean back before righting myself. Crossing the room, she throws a ChapStick into her purse as well. “I bet the boys are just about back. By the time you’re ready, we can all go.”

My mind races as I try to come up with an excuse, a way to wiggle out of this obligation so I can text Grayson, see if he can sneak away and come over to my room.

But that thought flies out the window when Sloane throws her door open and steps out into the hallway, nearly running into her newly minted husband.

“Hey, babe,” Callum says, his eyes softening when he sees her. “You look great.”

But it’s not just Callum—standing in the hallway behind him are Luca, Maverick, and Grayson.

“Comeon, Astrid,” Sloane says, still holding the door open as Callum shuffles in, throwing his hand up in a little wave—the guys do too—before sliding into the bathroom.

I walk to the hallway, desperately trying to keep my eyes off of Grayson, afraid that if I even glance at him, Sloane is going to read right into it.

“Meet you back out here?” Maverick asks, to which Luca responds, “Sounds good.”

Sloane tugs me back toward my room, and I realize that even if I find a good reason not to come out with her, Grayson wouldn’t be here at the hotel, becausehe’sgoing out, too.

With a sigh, I turn to my suitcase, trying to figure out if I have anything warm enough for a night on the town in cold-ass Minnesota.

Grayson

I’musedtoAstridlooking good.

Usually, when I’m around her, I can’t stop thinking about wanting to touch her, kiss her, take her clothes off. But right now, all I want to do is hug her, get my arms around her, and bury my nose in her hair.

Together, the group of us walks down the street together—Maverick and Ruby, Callum and Sloane, Ethan, Astrid and me, Luca—our heads bent against the cold. Astrid is so obviously freezing, despite how warm her sweater looks, her entire body trembling.

I want to run my fingers over that sweater—it’s one of those thick, knitted things with patterns and swirls. Something a fisherman would wear, all dark greens and blues, stripes and little, blocky images. It looks impossibly soft, and I imagine it’s warm on the inside from her skin.

She’s wearing simple light wash jeans and boots, a beanie pulled down over her dark hair, which strikes out from under the hat like it’s angry about being contained. I can’t stop looking at her, but she’s been sending out very, very strong signals to me.

Maverick walks with his arm around Ruby, and Callum touches Sloane at the base of her back, but I’m giving Astrid a wide, five-foot berth. No matter how much I want to touch her, tug her body against mine, warm her up, she clearly doesn’t want me to.

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